Tag Archives: riad

Bab Doukkala is my neighborhood in Marrakech, Morocco. It’s where my guesthouse / riad, Dar Basyma, is located. A gritty place with few to no tourists, it’s an authentic neighborhood with authentic people living authentic lives. Natural. Unassuming. Vibrant.

Soon after opening Dar Basyma, we met a gentle man we called L’Abadee, which means ‘old man’ in one of the African languages, or at least that’s what we surmised. Nonetheless, this man was dubbed that by us, even though he was probably only in his 50’s or 60’s. He owned a cardboard-lined, wire cart which he used to haul things for hire. Taking an immediate liking to him, he became our “luggage man,” toting luggage for the guests at Dar Basyma, which he did happily and with a toothless smile!

Over the next year and a half, we became as close as we could, considering we don’t speak the same language. He was the first person who greeted me when I arrived to the neighborhood and the last to bid me farewell. I looked forward to seeing him. When he was sick, I took him to the pharmacy and bought whatever medication I thought would help him, with the help of a diagnosis by the pharmacist. The team at the house did what we could for him, offering a little extra cash for the work he did for us, just to help him. He was kind and sweet and we all wanted to do whatever we could for him.

One day my business partner, Mokhtar, announced that L’Abadee had died. He died. I couldn’t grasp it. I knew he had been sick the last time I saw him, but I never suspected the sickness would kill him. When? I asked. No one knew, Mokhtar said. But apparently it was true since no one had seen him for at least 4 months. I was due to visit within days and I couldn’t imagine the neighborhood – – or even my visits to Morocco – – without him. The news was devastating.

On a quiet evening in autumn, soon after I arrived in Marrakech, the doorbell rang. we glanced at the computer image of the security camera aimed at the front door. No one was there; just the palms on either side of the front door. Then Mokhtar announced, “It’s L’Abadee!” I leapt up and flung open the door, helping the frail old man inside. He was alive! I couldn’t believe it. Instinctively I hugged him and felt his bones poking at me through his thin clothing. He must’ve weighed only 30 kg (65-70 pounds)! But he was alive. We couldn’t believe it.

While Mokhtar and L’Abadee spoke, I could see inside his gandora, (traditional dress for a man in Morocco), and saw tubing and a bag. Putting 2+2 together, between this and his very yellow skin, I determined he had liver cancer. Mokhtar confirmed it. We both hunched that he had probably just left the hospital as he had little strength and was out of breath from the walk to the house.

Desperate to tell him what he meant to me – – and thankful for this second chance! – – I spoke fast English to him even knowing that he didn’t understand. I needed to express my feelings for him. Luckily Mokhtar jumped in and translated as L’Abadee listened, with a slight smile, as we (they) spoke. We hugged, gave him the equivalent of 20USD and he was on his way. As quickly as he had arrived. In and out. Leaving behind a whirlwind of emotion.

After closing the door we went to the computer image of the security camera and watched as he leaned against the wall to adjust his tubing, his gandora, himself. And then he was gone. I knew that would be the last time I saw him.

In stunned silence we sat there. What had just happened!? After 4 months, this man came to see us! Unbelievable.

We had to go to the parking lot so we could share with the workers there our excitement that our friend was still alive. Zachariah, my favorite attendant, greeted us. We excitedly told our news about L’Abadee. His face fell and he stepped backwards and told us to stop! Stop talking about this, it can’t be true! He treated us like we were liars and refused to believe us. So we left. It was clear that L’Abadee had only visited us.

A few weeks later we got news from the parking attendants that L’Abadee had officially died. A man in the neighborhood, who remains anonymous, paid for his hospital stay and a group of the parking attendants collected enough money to pay for a proper burial.

I’m reading ‘A House in Fes: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco’ by Suzanna Clarke. It’s not the first time I’ve read this book and it won’t be the last. Since I read most books on an iPad / Kindle, I can see which passages impressed me the first time by the highlights placed in yellow. This time around I’ve added even more since I can relate more fully to Suzanna’s experiences. In fact, it may serve better to highlight the parts to which I don’t relate!

While vacationing in Morocco, Suzanna and her husband were inspired to purchase a home in Fes, one of the medieval walled cities that is one of Morocco’s famed ‘Imperial Cities.’ But the Clarke’s didn’t just buy any old house. They bought a dilapidated, centuries-old house with no plumbing, no electricity, and myriad other issues with which to contend! Their goal was to restore it using only traditional craftsmen and handmade materials. It’s a great story chronicling the restoration of the house, but it also offers an insight into Moroccan customs and lore, as well as a window into the lives of its people and the relationships Suzanna forges. In the end, the house, Riad Zany in Fes, is restored to probably even more than its former glory and the writer (and most likely Sandy, her husband) have ended up restoring themselves to the very core of their beings! I enjoyed the book the first time around but I’m enjoying it even more now that I have my own perspective on Morocco and home-ownership there.

The writer Paul Bowles called Morocco a place where travelers ‘expect mystery, and they find it.’ He also said, ‘Africa is a big place and will offer its own suggestions.’ There’s no better way to find these truths out than to own a house or to renovate one, like Suzanna Clarke did.

A few of the highlighted passages that strike a chord with me:

“Maybe it was a fit of madness, but on just our second visit to the old Moroccan capital of Fes, my husband and I decided to buy a house there – – as one does in a foreign country where you can’t speak the language and have virtually nothing in common with the locals.” (I strongly disagree with the last phrase. Although I barely speak the language, I find I have a lot more in common with the locals than not!)

“Nevertheless, [we] responded to Morocco in a way we had to no other country. We found it as multi-layered and intriguing as the patterns in the tile work adorning the buildings, each of which has its own hidden meaning. Morocco has the mystique of a land from the Old Testament yet appears to be coping comfortably with modernization… Outside mosques, running shoes are lined up next to pointy-toed babouches. In the souks, women wearing long robes and headscarves escort daughters with beautifully cut hair and high heels. You can eat at a street stall, in a Parisian-style cafe, or next to a tinkling fountain in an ornate courtyard. You can find yourself in the midst of a crazy, honking traffic jam, or dodging donkeys in cobbled alleyways, or riding a camel in the solitude of the Sahara.”

“There were obvious drawbacks, like the nuttiness of buying a house on the other side of the planet, a leg-cramping, blood clot-inducing, [12-hour journey] away. And just when would we actually get to spend time there? Our jobs consumed our lives…When exactly would we fit in a commitment to a property in another country?”

The writer Paul Bowles also said this: “Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well.Yet everything happens only a certain number times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty… And yet it all seems limitless.”

It’s because of this sentiment, because of the fact that I don’t know when I will die, and because now Morocco is so deeply a part of my being, that I decided to do the nutty thing of buying a house on another continent in a country where I barely speak the language! And it’s because I cannot conceive of my life without this beautiful, vibrant, and mysterious place!

I take for granted that people know how to read and write. But in Morocco that’s not always the case.

One day I was home alone with our housekeeper / cook at Dar Basyma. I was without the aid of my constant interpreter / business partner and was excited about this chance to get to know her better. I pulled up the Google Translate iPhone app, typed my message and showed it to her in French. She shook her head no. Misunderstanding, I typed it in Arabic instead. Again, she shook her head. The look on her face jarred me to the realization that she cannot read. Not at all. Eventually I spoke into the app and it voice-translated, but not in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) so it was cumbersome and hard to understand. So we sat awkwardly in silence and smiled until Mokhtar came back and was able to help us “chat.”

Since then I’ve learned that guests have left her notes that she cannot read. And we’ve had some mishaps with household cleaning products being used for the wrong things, lotions put in the conditioner containers (because they’re both white), and using the wrong settings on the washing machine. And she has no ability to read texts or to proofread her own spoken texts to others.

I know this is more frustrating for her than it is for the rest of us. Our house man works well with her. They’re close friends and spend much of their time laughing and huddling together over their phones as he has become a sort of Cyrano de Bergerac, penning her texts to family members, suitors, and friends; like Steve Martin in ‘Roxanne.’ It’s sweet and it’s funny, but the bottom line is that it’s mostly sad that she can’t do this work herself.

As she tells it she was a girl who liked only to have fun (I believe it, as she’s always laughing and joking). She consistently ran away from school and finally just quit. School isn’t required and for sure not required for girls so there was no motivation for her to stay at the time. Now she regrets it. And as she’s in her mid- to late-30’s, so feels it’s too late for her now.

Since she teaches the cooking classes at Dar Basyma, I’m working to put together her recipes since she obviously has nothing written down! She’s an excellent cook and she communicates well without speaking fluent English or writing, but we have no record yet of any of her myriad dishes she prepares at Dar Basyma. It’s a big job that I will pursue on my next visit.

Her solution for our inability to speak to one another is for me to learn Arabic. As though that’s an easy (or quick) task! Since she speaks French and Arabic, to her that seems an easy solution. I’m trying…

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There are rules in Morocco. Or at least ways of life. And I’m just learning them. Some of them.

One day, I excitedly walked out of Dar Basyma and around the corner a few feet to see if my friends were arriving yet. I was excited because these were my first friends to visit whilst I was also there.

Apparently I did a bad thing. I noticed a neighborhood girl watching me not with smiling eyes, but with a judgy look. I knew I had done something wrong but didn’t yet know what.

When we left the house later that day, the girl (whom I now know is Fatima) grabbed my Moroccan male companion and whispered something in his ear. To me he said, “You wore your house shoes outside earlier. She’s telling me you’re supposed to wear your house shoes inside only and wear your outside shoes outside only.”

That’s when I knew I was being watched. Scrutinized and judged. I turned and gave her the stink eye, and then I laughed. She laughed back and that was that!

I’ve owned my riad (guesthouse, home) in Marrakech, Morocco for one year. And what a year it has been! What a process of paperwork and meetings. After months and months of research, I knew I needed to start a corporation. So that came first. Naming it was the first step in that process. In the middle of one restless night I came up with the word ‘myriad’ for part of the name. I liked the word mostly because it’s ‘my riad’ when separated. Briliant, I thought. It also means countless or many, so it’s not limiting ownership to just this one riad. The final name of the corporation is Myriad Property and I love it. First step finished.

Next came the arduous task of finding an attorney (or notary as they are called in Morocco), and an accountant. Immediately I found the notary: a woman in her 40’s who is considered the best notary in Morocco. After meeting her I knew instantly she knew what she was doing and she was ‘neeshun’ or straight. Says it like it is. Follows the rules. That’s what I needed. Done.

Finding the accountant was not as easy. Especially since it was made clear from the beginning that I had no interest in doing any funny business. No corruption. I only wanted neeshun / by the rules. Finally, after about 6 interviews with various candidates, I found my man. He knows my requirement for following the rules and he’s good at that. He even calls me Madame Neeshun. Done.

Next step was to find the house. I had looked obsessively online and worked with multiple real estate agents and knew the market inside and out. Since there’s no MLS system or the like in Morocco, I saw the same house listed in various places and at various prices, all listed in Euro. Very interesting. One agent showed me a home that I fell in love with immediately! My business partner and I spent many hours at the house with the owners and it began to feel like mine, except the price was too high and I had to admit there was just no way I could afford it – – even with the falling value of the Euro (and thus, the rising value of the USD). I am still in touch with the owners and I still have hopes that the place will be mine someday. Riad #2, hopefully.

Once realizing I couldn’t afford the one I really wanted, I considered a small one that I had seen online. It really was the only other one I had any connection to, so after cancelling all other appointments with other agents, we kept the appointment with the agents who could show me this one.

We drove through the gates of Bab Doukkala and down the narrow and busy street to another more narrow street and I knew. This was my new neighborhood. I loved the vibrancy and the energy – – and the fact that there were no tourists. The agent opened the door and we walked in and I gasped! This house was mine. My partner and I both knew it.

The process was underway. There was so much paperwork that I couldn’t believe it. We made so many trips to various government agencies where we stood in long lines and saw a zillion government workers who required signatures in their multiple ledger books for cross-referencing. Everything is in French so it takes double-time to have everything interpreted. What an experience! And I loved every minute.

The most fun of all was naming the house. I wanted something pretty and also simple. So I googled a list of female Arabic names. I also knew I’d use the word ‘riad’ or ‘dar’ in front of it; both words mean guesthouse / house. I always like names that end in ‘a’ so narrowed the list down quickly. Basima was the name I first found, which means ‘smile.’ I have a friend who is named Basyma, with a ‘y’ so I pretty much knew that’s the name I wanted. She told me that spelled with a ‘y’, Basyma means ‘a big smile, almost a laugh.’ Boom. That’s it. Dar Basyma was born. And to this day I just love it.

In May 2015 we had our first guests. And a week later, two more came. And then a group of four. And then the tax man knocked on the door. “We know you’re renting out your house,” he said. “You owe us taxes.” We realized we had done almost everything except that part so after a trip to the proper agency, that was taken care of and we’ve been sailing smoothly since!

Of course there are many, many stories to be told. Business cards and a website was created, guests with strange requests came calling, unending neighborhood hijinks and gossip, etc. Look for additional posts with those details!

There’s nothing like owning a home (that’s going to be a rental property) and having a team (Housekeeper, House Manager and Operations Manager) to show you, in glaring detail, how annoying you are!

My persnickety demands surprise even me.

No labels on anything. Not on pillows, sheets, towels, pans, bottoms of candles – – nothing. ‘No paper labels,’ I shout in my head like Joan Crawford. (This Mommy Dearest reference would be lost in translation if said aloud)

No clocks. Don’t let guests even inkle the time. Let them completely relax and lose themselves in the culture and flow of Marrakech life. Besides, if they knew they’d be eating at 22:00 hours, they’d freak.

No dust or grime on any light switch or electrical plug or ledge or moulding or surface of any kind.

These actual words came out of my mouth, “Your first priority is to make it pretty.” This came to mind when I noticed the House Manager had put a dish scrubby in a leftover container of spackle or something like that. “If it’s not pretty, don’t use it,” I say.

No matches or candles allowed in case a guest forgets to blow them out.

More sauce in the tajine (I did say ‘please’, at least)

Duplicate sets of keys sorted by color for each room. Each room has its color.

No talking on the phone when clients are here.

‘We’re getting Dar Basyma tee shirts so we look professional’, I said. Yes! This came from my mouth! I absolutely hate having to wear the tee shirts/outfits my company makes us wear from time to time so I really can’t believe I said this.

And after all of this, the House Manager came to me tonight and said, “Put the coffee cups here, not there. You come here if you need them.” I had to laugh because this really isn’t my house; I’ll be here like 3x per year and they will run the place, for crying out loud!

I bought a riad/house in Marrakech; in the old medina of Bab Doukkala! I’ll be listing it for rent, so stay tuned! Also, see my new neighborhood. I live on a dead-end ‘derb’ or street and it’s in a great area. Markets just around the corner, very few tourists, and friendly people! The Bab Doukkala Mosque is nearby so I’ll be well able to hear the call to prayer. It’s a 15-minute walk to djemaa el fna, the popular square in Marrakech.

My neighborhood

Walking from the parking

The main drag

At the corner of my street

My street

My street

Neighborhood

The meat market around the corner

Around the corner

Market!

Market

Market

My olive and olive oil purveyor

My convenience store

Restaurant nearby

Purveyor of grains and legumes

View of my neighborhood through the terrace fencing

Another view

The neighborhood fountain. “Turn at the fountain for parking.”

Driving down the street around the corner

My street

My door before painting

This is the view the Prince of Luxembourg sees when walking from his riad: my terrace!

I’ve said it before on this blog, but I’ll say it again: if you keep saying yes in life, it’s hard telling what will happen or where you’ll end up. Take for example these recent doings. Since I love Morocco and have an interest in pretty much everything surrounding travel, new cultures/people, and real estate, I decided to pursue my plan to buy a riad, or guesthouse, in Marrakech. A real big deal, but only one part of this story.

Here’s another part. My best friend, Laurel Lindahl, is a producer/director and writer, among other things (like jokester, comedian, brownie-batter-eater, etc…). She recently won her second Emmy Award for a documentary film, linked below.

So she knows what she’s doing. And she’s good at it. That got the two of us talking. Since I’m interested in buying a riad and she has experience with documentary filmmaking, why not film the whole riad-buying experience? Why not make it into a marketable piece of film for some such use down the road? We got excited about this so loosely laid out a plan where we would travel to Morocco in November 2014 and bring a filmmaker with us to capture some footage.

And then things progressed even more. Mokhtar, my friend in Morocco, wants to visit the USA so last week went to the US Embassy to interview for a visa. They kept his passport, which is a real good sign that they’re going to allow him to visit. At least that’s what we’re thinking. So that’s another part of the story.

But there’s more. Since I’m going to Morocco over Labor Day weekend (next week!) to check out riads, why not bring a filmmaker along for a few days to film the experience? And why not ask the one filmmaker whom you have heard so much about and with whom you really want to work? And besides, he lives in Amsterdam, which makes the flight so much more manageable. So we quickly devised a plan and emailed him asking if he was available. He is. We asked him if he wanted to work with us and if he would provide costs involved. He does, and he did. And now I’ve booked his flight and we’re making plans for an entirely different trip than I originally planned!

And also, on this end in the States, we’re going to meet with another filmmaker and storyteller who will create a video for a Kickstarter campaign so we can get the film funded. And since Mokhtar will presumably be visiting in the next month or so, we will be able to work with him during his visit for the Kickstarter video and for a film we will do about his life as well as the lives of other Moroccans.

We came up with this idea a few months ago, but all details have transpired in less than 24 hours. The project has already evolved into more than we thought and we will keep moving forward with our ideas as long as things are falling into place. We will keep saying YES and see where we end up. More here as it happens!